


To Set a Heart Aflame

by Blue_sky_home



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fist Fights, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Robbery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 22:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_sky_home/pseuds/Blue_sky_home
Summary: John’s heart clenched in his chest, his head swimming from the injury and the sight in front of him. But the gun remained steady, trained even as it was on Sherlock Holmes.Set two years after TRF. Fir arguments sake let's pretend series 3 didn't happen.This is my first time writing for the Sherlock fandom and my first time posting on AO3. I have no idea what I'm doing so any help/criticism is welcome. This work was inspired by Cass on twitter. I hope they don't mind me sharing their twitter handle @sherlyhcm, so that you can find the awesome picture that inspired this piece. I hope I've done it justice.This work is completely unbeta'd and I've done my very best to change any of my Americanisms over to the proper Britishisms. Again, if you see anything that should be fixed please feel free to let me know! Otherwise, please enjoy!





	To Set a Heart Aflame

John Watson was addicted to danger.

 

But to anyone who knew him, this was not a surprise. His blood pumped through his veins, moved only by the thrill of the chase, the promise of war in the air.

 

Or, at least, it had. Two years was a long time to go without that which made you whole, and though he rarely admitted it, Sherlock had done just that. Made him whole. Set his heart to beating. Kept him alive. 

 

He scoffed and ran shaking hands over his eyes. In the darkness of his small flat, it was easy to think all of this. This place was not a home, this bed wasn’t quite his bed, and if he tried hard enough he could pretend that the thoughts belonged to another John Watson, one long since extinguished and faded. His eyes felt hot and gritty. His mouth was dry. His skin clammy. John had never been addicted to a substance before, but he imagined this was what withdrawal felt like. He needed a fix. His flat was too quiet anyway and sleep, if it came at all, was a long ways off. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He needed to walk.

 

Throwing on well worn jeans and a jumper, he started for the bedroom door, but paused at the desk opposite the bed. John clenched a fist but his palm was already tingling with the feeling of cold metal. He shook his head and practically lunged for the bottom drawer, throwing it open and shoving his hand to the back, sliding his fingers along the splintering wood until they made contact with the hidden treasure. He wrapped the butt of the gun in his hand and pulled it out slowly, cradling it in the dark for a few brief seconds, a match to light his blood on fire once more. Quickly, he shoved it into the back of his belt and left his room. Taking his jacket off the hook near the door. Locking up quickly behind him and making his way down the street. His feet steered him; they knew exactly where John wanted to go.

 

These walks had started not long after… after. Haunted by the image of a too pale and lifeless body on the sidewalk in front of Barts every time he shut his eyes, John had wandered the streets of London, hoping to exhaust himself, hoping to erase everything. But most of the time, no matter the hour, there was too much life and laughter and hope. It had made John ill. Body aching with the tension of so much grief and so many words left unsaid, he continued. He walked until the seedier sides of London rose around him, the dark and abandoned buildings blocking out all sound and light. For the first time in months John had felt a familiar feeling well up inside of him. In the quiet and the shadows of back alleys and poorly lit streets John could finally hear the whisper in the back of his head that had been drowned out since that terrible day.

 

_ The game is on… _

 

As the months had turned into a year and a year into two, his walks had become less frequent. Not because of any sense of wanting to live for anything but simply because he had gone numb. He had fallen into the monotony of  _ wakeupworkeatsleep _ and the urge to keep fighting had simply left him. Leaving Baker Street for the little nondescript flat on the other end of town had helped. John was no longer surrounded by the millions of tiny things that reminded him of chases through the night and private smiles by the fire. He no longer had to stare at the chair where Sherlock Holmes had once sat, thinking of the things he should have said and why he had never said them. But even now, these few years later, that knot would burst inside of him. He’d need to pretend, if only for a few hours, that maybe there was still some part of that old John hidden away. He could pretend, as he walked the soggy, lonely, dangerous streets of this large city that maybe he wasn’t exactly walking alone.

 

Without knowing how, John found himself right where he wanted to be. He didn’t know the street’s name, wasn’t exactly sure how long he had been walking. A street lamp flickered overhead and a scratchy radio played too loud from an open window nearby. The air around him hung in a damp mist; not quite rain, not quite fog. His steps, slow and measured, echoed up at him, singing off the cracked brick. A dangerous smirk slid across his face. His pulse quickened. 

 

“Too cold for the criminal class?” he mumbled softly to himself but not completely. He could hear the familiar quiet hum, deep baritone, next to him. It sent a shiver down his spine. The click of shoes along with his rang in his ear and John closed his eyes, letting the intimacy of his memories take over.

 

Until the footfalls were right behind him.

 

Adrenaline took over, but too late as a hand grabbed at his elbow and pulled, tugging him around and back. John lost his balance, nearly tumbling to the ground, until another hand pulled him up by his collar and the hand at his elbow formed a powerful fist that landed hard and fiery against his cheek. John gasped, too surprised by the sudden turn of events. He fell backward, head landing with a terrifying crack. His vision blurred, bright spots of light covering the shadow that now crouched over him, pulling him up and slamming him back down. 

 

He felt the gun biting at his back. The soldier took over.

 

He kicked up, throwing the stranger off balance long enough for John to reverse their positions. John, small but muscular, pinned the man down, landing a blow to his face and then grabbing for his gun. He held it, the metal shining slick with rain, blood and sweat running down John’s face. His whole body buzzed.

 

“Who are you? What do you want?” he hissed. The man just laughed. John shoved the gun closer to his face and opened his mouth to speak. A familiar click stopped him.

 

“I suggest you put that down and get off my friend. Slowly.”

 

For just a second John was still. Too many questions ran through his head; why had he thought this was a good idea? Alone, no one to back him up? Even the lowest form of criminal had been smart enough to commit their crimes in pairs and now John was probably about to be robbed and murdered right here because he had been chasing ghosts. He set his gun on the ground and took his time standing, his hands up at his head, breath coming out in shallow puffs.

 

“There ya go. Good man. Back over to that wall there,” there was a tiny shove, moving John into an alley he hadn’t even noticed, “Face it. I don’t wanna see yer face when I blow it to pieces. Mac, grab his gun. I’m gonna check for his wallet. Bloke walking around with a gun this time a night? Probably flushed.”

 

John squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the unwanted invasion. Instead, there was a swish of fabric and then a yell. John fell to the ground, hands over his head as he listened to the sound of fist meeting bone, bodies scuffling. A second voice yelled, silenced when the crack of a skull hitting the ground echoed through the alley. A clack and skid of metal followed and John looked up just enough to see his gun just a few inches from his face. He scrambled, grasping at it with rain soaked fingers, getting a grip just as feet appeared in front of his face. John jumped up, gun held high. The light above flickered. John’s eyebrows furrowed.

 

“John -”

 

It was just a breath really, as ghostly as the specter that stood in front of him. John’s heart clenched in his chest, his head swimming from the injury and the sight in front of him. But the gun remained steady, trained even as it was on Sherlock Holmes.

 

Or no, not Sherlock. Because Sherlock was dead. He had jumped two years ago, landing in a heap of blood and brilliant brain and leaving John alone, so alone. This man, whoever he was, was an imposter and a bright flash of hate ripped through John’s core. He shifted the gun slightly, aiming it at the dead center of the man’s head. He looked down briefly, eyes flitting over the still bodies of the would be thieves. He could barely make out the rise and fall of their chests in the darkness, and while the breathing was shallow he knew they’d be fine for a bit. His eyes flicked back to the third man and he frowned. Blood dripped down his face, mingling with tears he didn’t remember shedding. He shook as he spoke, barely audible.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“John, I can explain -”

 

“No! Stop it! Stop right now. You are not… Sherlock is dead.”

 

The man’s hands flinched at his side and John gripped his gun tighter. The man bit his lip and nodded slowly, eyes wide. His jaw was covered in stubble, the dark curls that hung over his piercing eyes only slightly longer than Sherlock had kept his. John must have hit his head harder than he thought because, try as he might, the face didn’t falter. He kept seeing Sherlock standing right there and it was painful and hateful and so bloody brilliant.

 

The man spoke, slowly, softly, his eyes never leaving John’s, “Your name is John Hamish Watson,” he started, “and we lived together at 221B Baker Street. You used to make this ridiculously simple noodle dish, something with peas, that I would always eat even though I said I hated it.”

 

“Stop it,” John growled, but the man continued.

“The first words you ever said to me were ‘Here, use mine.’ You handed me your cell, and I deduced your military service and your drunk sister from it.”

 

“I kept a blog. Anyone could know that,” but John was wavering.

 

“No, they couldn’t. That’s what made you think I was brilliant. You said so yourself, that first case,”

 

“You’re not Sherlock!” This time, John yelled when he spoke. The voice was so familiar, he wanted to fall into it, fall into those arms, press his face into the man’s chest and release the years of grief and what-ifs and If onlys. The man took a timid step forward, one hand raised, the other slowly reaching out. John’s eyes were wet with tears, his rims hot and stinging with the effort to control himself. His throat ached. He wanted to scream. The stranger continued.

 

“You spoke to me at my grave. You asked me for one more miracle, John.”

 

John could see the gun shaking, could feel a cold wave of nausea sweep over him. Bile rose acidic and sharp at the back of his throat. The stranger inched closer.

 

“One miracle. Don’t. Be. Dead,” he enunciated slowly, “I heard you.”

 

Long fingers finally circling the barrel of the gun. He tugged, once, and John didn’t resist. As the gun slid away from his own hand, reality crashed around him. He sagged forward, caught by arms he had dreamed about for two years, arms he had stitched up and dragged down London streets and grasped at for a pulse. They wrapped around him, soaking up all his grief and anger, bundling him into a cocoon and sheltering him from all of the questions that now raced through his mind. John just sobbed, gripping tightly at the collar he buried his face into. He pulled Sherlock closer, spoke into his chest all the words he wished he had said before the fall. There would be time to think about it all later, what they meant, what had happened. John was incoherent with confession. He needed this moment. He held tight and felt his heart pulse against the other man’s chest. A steady cadence sparked back to life.

 

_ Sherlock. _

 

_ Sherlock. _

 

_ Home. _

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
